Trapped in a Song
by Ryuchu
Summary: If I were to capture their divorce in a song, I wonder what it would sound like.
1. Chapter 1

If I were to capture their divorce in a song, I wonder what it would sound like.

What time signature would represent the uncertainty of everyday life? How many measures of rests would represent the days of icy silence within the house? Which key would represent the disjointed and broken nature of my family?

Which instrument would represent my father? Something strong and bright from the brass family? Something loud and abrasive from the percussion family? Something high-strung and frail from the woodwind family?

Which instrument would represent my mother? Something high-pitched and buzzing from the string family? Something insignificant and yet loud from the percussion family? Or maybe she would be a voice, screaming and throwing a tantrum in an attempt to be heard above all the instruments that easily drown her out.

Then there's me.

What's my role?

Am I hapless member of the audience, simply watching the music play out before me?

Am I another orchestra member, contributing to the music yet unable to control the action of the other instrumentalists around me?

Or maybe I'm the conductor. Maybe I'm the one holding the baton and leading the symphony. Maybe I'm the one telling the trumpets to blare brightly before having the nagging wails of the flutes answer the call. Maybe I have the power to put down the baton and stop the music.

Maybe it's all my fault that the song keeps playing on.

Maybe…

SLAM

Ah, I see, all these notes should be staccato to represent the suddenness and yet complete predictability of dad coming home from work. Then maybe I should make it dip down to a sudden pianissimo for those moments of precious silence as he takes off his shoes and coat before the day's music starts in earnest.

What will they provide me with today? Maybe it will be another night of heavy silences and icy fragility. There's been a lot of that lately. If so, I'll need the quieter instruments and more subtle notations.

"What's for dinner? I'm starved!"

Oh, today is going to be loud. Sudden fortissimo.

He's been drinking. I'll just place a portamento over his notes to emulate the slurring of his words; it'll add realism.

"If you had come back on time, it would have been steak and potatoes. But you've been busy drinking so I'm afraid there's none left for you to eat."

Mom is definitely a piccolo tonight; I can almost hear her notes straining at the highest spectrum available to them.

"I told you, it's _expected_ of me to drink with everyone else. It will only help me climb up the ladder faster."

What notes did I use last time he used that excuse? I know it's around here somewhere…ah, here we go. Hm, but his words aren't exactly the same this time…maybe I'll just make this one a variation of the original one.

"'Climb the ladder'?! You've been stuck in the same place for years on end! Don't give me your bullshit!"

This is a new response. I'll have to think up something completely different for this part. A new passage of music; how positively exciting! There hasn't been one of those for a long time!

But I can't get too overzealous. This is only mom's opening gambit after all; maybe I'll start at a mezzo forte and build from there?

"At least I'm _trying_ to do something! All you do is sit at home, stare at a TV all day, and expect me to bend to your every whim! What good is that doing anyone?!"

Dad's response is pretty good. His dynamic will have to be a little bit louder than mom's.

"_I_ make food for both you and our daughter! _I_ clean the house so you don't live in a goddamn pigsty! _I_ make sure that you have a pleasant home to come home to! _I_ make sure that _your _daughter is growing up in a healthy environment!"

Accent the first note of each phrase, fade slightly after that.

She mentioned me. Maybe I should hang a slight descant part of my instrument; a reminder to the audience of all the times my musical motif has been used so far.

"If that's the case, then why when I come home is everything just as disgusting as when I left?! And unless I'm mistaken, these 'dinners' that you make never seems to be there when I get home and it's time for me to eat!"

Loud, abrasive, assured, and beginning to overpower the other parts. It's the only instrument that will be noticed and refuses to acknowledge that everyone else has sunk down to a quieter dynamic.

"Because you're a selfish pig who only works and drinks – and I'm not even sure if you work anymore. When was the last time I actually saw one of your paychecks?!"

Quieter, frail, and desperately trying to have presence by being in a high octave. The audience should be privy to the game; they should know that she's going to lose the bout.

"The last time you saw one was when you spent all of my hard-earned money on buying yourself jewelry! Just how was that supposed to help maintain the house or raise _your_ daughter?!"

Louder and more abrasive. Crescendo…crescendo…

My musical leitmotif again, louder this time. I'm being made the center of the argument.

"If you want to try raising your daughter by yourself, then be my guest! I don't have to put up with this! I'm leaving!"

Trying to be defiant – maybe one note at an assured forte? – but then slinking into weakness and piano.

"Don't bother coming back! No one here wants you!"

One final, fortissimo flourish. Should sound victorious and grandiose.

SLAM

A dying, quiet squeak that admits defeat for now but maintains the promise of further debate.

My instrument should continue on even though everyone has fallen away. It's wavering unsurely between a bass note and a treble note. End up holding somewhere in the middle.

Then nothing.

The music isn't done.

It will pick up again tomorrow.

And it will be my job to dictate it all.

* * *

I allow my pencil to roll from my hand as I finish the last note on the sheet. My eyes quickly scan the new page that had been added to the continual growing collection of music sheets that litters my desk. How long have I been doing this?

Oh, right, it was after the first time I heard them arguing.

How long ago was that?

I don't know.

Answering to some desire I have no ability to name or identify, I allow my hands to rife through the pile next to me, eventually digging to the bottom and rescuing the first page I ever wrote. The page is scratchy and uncertain; notes are smudged and the musical notations aren't as polished as they've become over the years.

There are also obvious watermarks on certain parts of the page.

I had been crying when I wrote that first page.

I've learned to control it since then.

I can't cry when there's music to be composed. I can't cry when I have to capture the sounds of their screaming, the sounds of their silences, the sounds of their mirthless jabs at one another and transfer it into notes.

I was weak then. I've grown stronger.

I've grown stronger.

I've grown stronger.

The paper falls from my hands and back onto the pile as I exit my bedroom and creep down the stairs. I attempt to be as quiet as possible so I won't disturb my father; maybe today will be one of his good days, maybe it won't – I don't want to take any chances.

But my desire for self-preservation is quickly overwritten by my music's demand that I investigate further. I have managed to record the climax of the piece, but the aftermath is just as important to catalogue. If my composition stops now it will be abrupt and fake.

This composition has to be realistic; it has to be perfect.

My feet stop as I reach the doorway to the kitchen. I can hear my father muttering to himself and rummaging within – he hasn't bothered to turn on the light, so all I can see are vague shadows that speak of the bigger picture.

"That you IA?" I hear his gruff, slurred voice call out to me as the shadow in his shape shifts to look at the entryway to the kitchen.

"Yes."

"When did you get home?"

"Just now. I was at a friend's house studying for a math test."

I've found over the years that it's easier to pretend that I haven't heard the arguments. When I lie, I don't have to listen to their half-formed excuses and apologies that really only serve to comfort themselves.

The lies don't even have to be viable – my parents like to believe that I haven't heard their arguments that often.

I wonder if dad will call me out on the fact that school ended about three weeks ago and I'm not taking any summer courses.

"Good. You make sure to keep studying and keep those grades up; don't want to being a good-for-nothing like your mother, now do we?"

It's a phrase he used often when I was a child, but back then it had an entirely different meaning. Back then he would say it with a smile and a wink while mom mimed horror at such a suggestion before giving in and smiling. At one time, that phrase had been happy, silly, and warm.

Now, even though I can't properly see his face, I know he's wearing a scowl. There is no warmth – there is only bitterness and scorn.

Childhood was a long time ago.

"I'll try my best dad."

A response that takes no sides.

"Good, that's all I ask of you. Now go up and go to bed; your mother is staying at a friend's house for a few days – can't remember when she said she'll be back. You can take care of yourself during that time, right?"

"Sure."

"Good," He repeated, once more slurring the word on his drunken tongue, "Then head off to bed."

"Good night dad. I love you."

I wait for the response that is to be expected in this situation, but he has already turned away from me and is once more rummaging through the kitchen. Whether or not he's heard me is a moot point; all that matters is the fact that he gives me no response. How many additional seconds I wait there hoping for any form of acknowledgement before I give up and turn away, I can't really say.

He didn't hear me; that's the only explanation. Being drunk can affect your hearing, right?

I head back up to my room and lock the door behind me. As I walk to the desk that contains pages upon pages of recorded fights, silences, and other indicators of divorce I feel light-headed. I pick up that first sheet that I wrote so many years ago and for several seconds, all I can do is stare at it.

Sometimes I wonder if my parents are even aware of the inevitable end of their marriage. When I started composing this piece, I had been just as oblivious as them; I had thought that maybe my composition would go on for only a little while before my parents worked out their problems and life wound its way back to the warm, lilting tune I had been surrounded by as a child.

There are now hundreds upon hundreds of pages scattered on both my desk and my floor.

In my hand I hold the first page of the first movement of their divorce.

Back then I hadn't understood the intricacies of capturing loss of love, misplaced feeling of entitlement, burden of unwanted responsibility and the dark feelings these phenomenon breed and transferring them to music meant to be enjoyed by the masses. I'm far better at recording the song now; it's become an art form that I'm dangerously close to perfecting.

Why was the song still playing?

Who was the person that just wouldn't let the song die?

What was preventing the musicians from moving on to bigger and better works?

The paper in my hand provided no answers; the papers scattered everywhere in my room provided no answers; the pages that had yet to be written but were inevitably in my future provided no answers. I can only guess.

The answer I've come up with is myself – I'm the conductor holding the baton. I'm the one telling them to keep playing on.

It's always my leitmotif that keeps showing up ad nauseam within the music.

It's always my name that keeps showing up ad nauseam within my parent's arguments.

Suddenly there's a bag in my hand and I'm shoveling all my pages upon pages of music hastily into it. The sound of the paper crinkling in protest greets me, but I ignore its pleas and continue to force it into confinement in the bag. The rest of the packing is done hastily and without much thought – clothing, money, snacks, and personal effects; all of them are shoved into the bag and within minutes the music is buried under a layer of trinkets of my life.

I don't even have to bother waiting for my father to go to bed. I can hear the TV blaring downstairs, effectively masking any noises I may end up making. The giddy, light-headed feeling from earlier remains as I bound down the stairs and touch down on the landing.

Perhaps answering to some childish instinct within myself, my eyes wander to look at the TV where my father is sitting. A gaudy game show host is parading all the fabulous prizes the contestants can win by just answering a few simple questions.

My father loves watching game shows.

I can't stand them.

Whatever words I might have wanted to say or second-guesses I may have wanted to ponder quickly evaporate as the game show continues to drone on. The host's smile is obnoxiously fake as he turns towards the viewing audience, including them in on the suspense:

"We'll see if she has the right answer...after this commercial break."

The door clicks closed behind me before the first advertisement even has an opportunity to start.

* * *

Somehow I've ended up on a train.

When I had first bowed out of my role of conductor by escaping into the night, I immediately ran to the large dumpster behind one of the local restaurants near my house. I plunged my hand in the bag and began to pull up fistfuls of sheet music. For the longest time, I simply stood there staring at the carefully annotated music notes.

Wherever I ended up going, I wouldn't need them. Wherever I ended up going, I wouldn't be surrounded by the sounds of divorce. Wherever I ended up going, I would be free to compose anything else in the world.

I could compose something happy and wonderful and amazing.

All I had to do was throw them away and never look at them again. It was a task so simple that I shouldn't have even hesitated. It should have been so easy.

I couldn't do it.

The music of divorce was shoved hastily back in my bag, this time placed above all the little trinkets and baubles that I had chosen to bring with me. As I hefted the load on my shoulder, it and the weight within my chest felt heavier. I knew then that I would never be able to escape the music if I stayed in that town. I had to get far, far away.

So now I'm headed to destinations unknown.

The train is swift and smooth and only a few other passengers dot the spacious car. Each of them is absorbed in the own world, some reading, some listening to music, some simply staring out the window. I can't help but wonder what they would do if they knew I was running away from home. Would this knowledge even be able to permeate their private worlds that they have established?

Even though I can't see my musical score, my mind keeps snagging on it whenever I try to clear my thoughts and look towards my now uncertain future. Now that I've stepped down from my place as the conductor, I'm curious to see what the audience will say. After all, what I just presented them is an incomplete and imperfect piece. Will there be boos or cheers?

In the end, I hear nothing. It's as if the audience is waiting with baited breath for the piece to progress.

Maybe this isn't the grand finale but is rather the beginning to another movement of the piece.

Maybe the music isn't done and all I'm doing is adding superfluous rests in a vain attempt to hold off the eventual end.

I hope not. I dearly hope not.

I've put down the conductors baton, I've told the music to stop playing, so everything should be alright now. As long as I don't come back into the picture, everything should be okay.

The ride begins to lull and calm me. It's a mother's lullaby – all the other instruments have dropped away and now there's just one sweet and yet entirely imperfect voice leading the way. The sound is both comforting and strange as it buzzes within my skull; this is a type of music my life hasn't given to me in years. There are possibilities and hope contained within that I never even dared to imagine before.

I can feel my eyes grow heavy and I allow my cheek to push up against the window next to me. The lullaby continues to play inside my head and I find myself drifting further away from reality and closer to the realm of dreams.

Yet I can't complete the journey.

No matter how soothing the song of the train is, the notes are continually challenged by a far harsher melody that my mind keeps producing. It's been an integral part of my existence for so long that I don't even have to wonder where the melody stems from.

Even while I'm running away, the unfinished song of divorce continues to haunt me.


	2. Chapter 2

I must have fallen asleep at some point because I awake to weak, early morning light streaking through the dirt-stained window that has served as my pillow. My eyes are puffy and dry from the unusual sleeping conditions and every muscle in my body is screaming in protest. Their cries are easy to ignore though because of the sight out the window.

It's the sunrise.

A common occurrence perhaps, but no less beautiful because of its every day nature. The way the sun barely peeks over the green hills and the soft haze of clouds making everything fuzzy and ephemeral. The sky burns red and speaks of the contradictory harshness and compassion of sunlight.

Staring at it now, it's obvious why countless poets and musicians have attempted to capture it in both the written and musical word. Something like this would awaken a sleeping muse in anyone's breast.

There's a piece of blank score and a pen in my hands. Logically I must have grabbed them from my bag sitting next to me, but I don't remember every tearing my sight away from the sunrise.

I stare unblinkingly until my eyes are dry and sore. It's beautiful. The music inside my head should be beautiful. Things should be different now.

I wait for something to happen.

The sunrise is right there; why can't the music that haunts my very existence reflect that?

The rhetorical question is answered by the quiet and uncertain whine of the trumpet. It's an odd sound for an instrument as bright and brassy as a trumpet to make, but I know exactly what it's meant to signify. How many times have I written the same theme to represent my father waking up hung-over and bleary eyed? I wonder if my lack of presence in the house will cause the melody to change at all.

Probably not. Dad always has his same routine in the morning – wake up hung-over, stumble to the bathroom, take a long shower, make an easy and quick breakfast, head out the door and go to work. Nowhere in this part of the music does my leitmotif show up.

No good morning wake up calls. No early morning cheer at my expense. No best wishes and farewells.

When I look down at the page in my hand, it's filled with notes, dynamics, phrase markings – for all intents and purposes it's a completely polished couple of bars of music that I've managed to write in a manner of minutes.

Of course it's perfectly polished. Of course it is.

I've written the same wavering trumpet solo for months on end.

My bag feels inordinately heavy as I heft in onto my shoulder and make my way towards the train's door. No announcement has been made for where we are or even if we're close to a stop, but I know the next train station is where I want to – where I _need_ – to be.

The newly written trumpet solo is still gripped within my hand. I can't bring myself to crumple it up; I can't bring myself to throw it on the ground. The best I manage is to shove it in my bag and zip it away with all the rest.

Outside the window, the sun is slowly creeping higher into the sky.

Inside my head, the sound of the door slamming as he leaves is imitated by a percussive flourish of a bass drum.

By the time the train finally pulls to a stop, the sun has officially risen.

The doors slide open and I'm greeted with a blast of air that's uncomfortably warm and sickly sweet smelling. My hesitation lasts for only a second before I step down from the high-tech train onto a wooden platform that seems to be held together by stubbornness alone. A few second later, I hear the hydraulics of the door closing behind me. It's only at this point that I turn around.

The sleek white body of the train begins to pull away slowly before it picks up speed. Soon all I can see is a streak of white and in a few short seconds, even that is gone.

Somehow I've ended up in what appears to be a small country community.

Having lived in the suburbs my whole life, seeing a small town is almost like something out of a fairytale. The houses are all different shapes and sizes and anyone's nearest neighbor is at least a ten minute walk. Not far away are hills and dense forests that stretch so far they melt into the horizon. Everything is green, vibrant, and popping with life. For a moment, all the sounds within my head are silenced as my brain absorbs the shock of the scene.

It makes me uncomfortable.

By the time I descend from what remains of the rickety platform, my mother's high woodwind voice has returned to my head. I can't be there to ascertain the truth of the situation, but having seen this scenario before, I've chosen to represent her with a clarinet. The husky sound of the clarinet matches her perfectly after she's spent the night drinking away her imagined troubles.

Maybe this is when she'll notice I'm gone.

No. She's going to crack open a beer, turn on the T.V., and down the whole can within a half-hour before she reaches for another one. Unlike dad, mom can handle her alcohol. I suppose it's the perk of being a highly-functioning alcoholic.

The same melody day after day after day.

I've ended up at a stream. It's probably on someone's property, but if they come asking, I'll just apologize and leave; if they don't then I suppose I just get a free pass. Even though it's hot at home, it feels even more stiflingly hot here. Maybe it's because the hills around here trap the heat?

My bag falls heavily to the ground as I settle underneath a tree next to the stream. My hands feel itchy and unsatisfied. If I were still at home, I would be composing the song of their divorce right now.

It's quiet.

In the suburbs there was always the sound of cars as people rushed to and fro; at home there was always the sound of either the T.V. or mom and dad arguing. Here there's simply nothing.

It's terrifying.

When there's silence, all I can hear in the music in my head. The notes seem to be crisper, louder, and more abrasive. Every note is like a siren wail in my ears – it's too loud to be ignored but too blatant and discordant to be enjoyed.

I can hear the delicate flurry of strings – the laugh track of mom's favorite sitcom.

I can hear the low rumble of drums – my mom downing another beer.

I can hear the human-like lilting of the clarinet – my mom talking to herself for company.

Every sound is pounding in my skull, right behind my eyes.

Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

Why aren't you denoting this? Why aren't you keeping track of the sound of their divorce? Why aren't you there? Why are you running away when you know there's no escape?

The cold water of the stream is so shocking and surprising that my thoughts and the music scatter. I continue to stamp the water of the stream, causing droplets to fly into my face and sting my skin; my hair and arms fly around me, effectively blocking out the outside world. My feet pound out a heavy-handed beat that's ugly and inelegant but manages to drown out the feeble cries of every other instrument.

There's a word for this: a tantrum.

God does it feel good.

SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash.

I'm huffing and puffing by the time I finally gain control of myself. My hair and clothes are soaked. Everything's sticking to me as if I've gained a second skin. My feet hurt and I can see faint traces of red in the water.

Although I can still hear the faint strains of their divorce, my mind decides to focus most of its attention on finding an instrument suitable to match the actions I just took. Percussion definitely, but which one will best capture the intensity? Is there some musical cue I can use to represent the fact that I've just bashed my feet open on the rocks of the riverbed?

"Are you done now?"

It's a boy.

No, looking again, 'boy' probably isn't the correct term to use. It's probably safer to say 'young man'. If nothing else, he looks to be older than I am by several years. He has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a slim build. He's the textbook definition of a 'pretty boy'.

His voice type doesn't fit with an orchestra at all.

"For now. If it gets too quiet again I may have to pick it up again."

"Is that so?"

As he speaks, a smile splits his features. It's tinged with bemusement, but it's honest. I don't know what to do with a smile like that. The notes I could use to capture it are many and varied, but they're pushed out of my head before they have any chance to take root.

"Yes."

"Then I should probably be expecting to hear from you again pretty soon because the only time there's any noise here is when the train stops in."

"How often does the train stop?"

"About every three weeks."

"So does that mean I'm stuck here for the next three weeks?"

"Unless you have some way of traveling other than the train."

"I don't."

"Then I'm sorry but you're stuck."

Just like that our conversation comes to an end. This boy has just told me that I'm stuck; he's told me that for three weeks, there's no escaping this sleepy valley. The orchestra in my head begins to crescendo in protest.

There's music to be written; you don't have the time or liberty to be gone for three weeks! Who's going to orchestrate everything? Who's going to ensure that the song goes on without a hitch? You're the conductor! You're the conductor!

Louder and louder. Crescendo…crescendo…

SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash. SLAM. splash.

There's pressure on my wrist. It's not terribly unpleasant, just different, very different. My feet stop their methodical rhythm as I look at the offending area. There's a hand wrapped around my waif thin wrist, applying light pressure.

When was the last time I had direct human contact with anyone?

"Stop. You're tearing up your feet."

My eyes find his face. His expression is stern but his eyes are gentle and concerned.

He's looking at me; he's looking at a slip of a girl slamming her feet over and over again into the water; he's looking at IA.

"I'll stop if you sit and talk with me. When there's talking the instruments aren't as loud."

He's clearly confused, but he gives a nod of his head as he releases my wrist. I walk out of the river and the dirt stings the multitude of cuts I have just given to myself. I opt to return to where I had been sitting before my tantrum began. Somehow my bag has managed to stay dry throughout the whole ordeal.

Of course it's not going to be that easy to escape. It's never that easy to escape.

My fingers find the zipper and it begins to cling lightly, rather like the tinny sound of a triangle. A few seconds later he's sitting next to me, my bag the only thing between the two of us.

"So when you said 'the instruments' you were talking about musical instruments, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay…well, there're no instruments playing right now."

"In the real world, you're right. But inside my head, I can always hear them. There's a full orchestra trapped up there and they're always playing."

"…What are you talking about?"

"I'm a prodigy – a wunderkind – and because of that an orchestra gets to live in my head."

Silence interrupted only the by zipper triangle. This is the point where he's going to say that I'm insane. This is the part where he's going to recommend some big name psychologist that he knows. This is the part where I completely lose him.

It was just another melody that I head over and over again.

"You've been given both a great blessing and a great curse."

A flub. A mistake. Someone missed their cue. A whole section came in when it wasn't supposed to. Was it because I had accidentally given some sort of motion that told them it was alright?

My hands stopped playing with the zipper and the world outside fell silent.

The world inside was silent as well.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Then came the clarinet, strong and loud. Her call is instantly answered by the trumpet.

I begin to play with the zipper again.

"Aren't you going to say that I'm insane? Aren't you going to suggest that I go to some big name psychiatrist to get help for the obvious problems that I have?"

"I could if you really wanted me to, but I don't think that's going to help much. Besides, I'm worried that if I leave you'll start pounding your feet into the stream again."

My eyes find his face yet again. He's smiling.

Why is it different? Why is it not exactly as everything was before? I'm supposed to be insane. I'm supposed to be crazy. I'm supposed to hear the instruments in my head because of some sickness I have. It's not a blessing. It's not a curse.

It's a disease.

"…What would you do if I started pounding my feet into the water again?"

"I would stop you of course."

"Why?"

"Because we don't have cars here and if you're stuck here for three weeks, you're going to have to do a lot of walking. Besides, I may look strong, but if I had to carry you all the way to the nearest house, it would be a lot of work."

A joke. He's making a joke.

Laugh. I'm supposed to laugh.

Don't be diseased, don't be diseased, don't be diseased.

The tingling of the zipper plays lightly over the sound of the full orchestra. They have recovered from their earlier shock and have picked up right from where they left off. It's as if nothing has happened at all.

"Just point me to the nearest hotel. I can walk."

"The problem with that is we don't have any hotels in this town."

"Then where am I supposed to stay for three weeks?"

"Everyone that needs a place to stay is allowed to rent out a room at Ann's place. I can show you the way if you'd like."

"Yes."

"Alright, then hop on."

Suddenly he's kneeling in front of me, his back presented to me. The position is strange and unfamiliar to me and all I can do is stare blankly. Some part of my brain that's not beholden to the orchestra is trying to tell me something, but the noise of the instruments easily drowns the message out. All I can do is stand and clutch my bag to my chest; anything to put distance between myself and this anomaly of an individual.

He's looking back at me again, blue eyes halting the sounds of the orchestra.

"What's wrong?"

"What…do you want me to do?"

"I'm going to carry you."

He says it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He says it as if we have known each other for years rather than just minutes.

I don't know what to do.

"But I'll be heavy."

"From looking at you, I seriously doubt that."

"But I have my bag. It's heavy."

"I'll be fine. If I can't carry both of you all the way, you can try walking for a little bit and I'll carry the bag, deal?"

"No. No you can't carry me or the bag."

Why am I saying that? Why won't I give it up? This is the opportunity I've been waiting for! This is the easy out that I've been searching for!

"You're rather stubborn, aren't you? Fine then. I'll just walk beside you and help in any way that I can, how does that sound?"

"That will do."

He begins to lead me then, his steps strong and sure. I lag behind; my feet burn with each step that I take and my bag weighs me down. He continues to speak amicably to me, but I'm no longer listening.

The orchestra inside my head is in complete disarray. All the instruments play at once in a hodge-podge of messy sounds.

But despite this, I can still hear the easily recognizable melody that has governed my life for so long.

By the time we reach the house where I'll be staying, the clarinet has managed to begin its nagging tune.

Mom has just woken from her daily nap and is going to search me out of tell me to get started on my summer homework.

By the time I make it to my room, the clarinet part grows more frenetic and erratic.

Mom has discovered I've run away.

By the time I'm bidding goodbye to the young man, the trumpet and clarinet are engaging in a loud, bombastic duet, each trying to drown out the other.

Mom has called dad and the fighting has begun.

Yes, this is the frenzy I'm used to.

It's so loud and bombastic, I barely hear as the young man bids me farewell. Before he had even disappeared from sight, I rush back to my room and tear open my bag. I grab the sheet of music I wrote this morning and quickly begin to scribble down notes.

The notation is crude, but within minutes I've managed to capture all the sounds that played in my head today. Within minutes, there's several more pages added to the song of my parent's divorce.

But this time when I sit back, allow the pencil to roll from my grasp, and look at the pages I've just created, there's something different. There's something that has never been present in the song before.

A saxophone line.

The orchestra within my head screams in protest, but all I can do is stare at that one line.

That one, singular difference.

* * *

**A/N:** I changed the name of the story. When I was originally deciding on a name, I wavered between "Escapism" and "Trapped in a Song" for quite some time. As I've continued to write this story, I've realized that the second title probably fits better, so I'm using that now.


End file.
